Nothing but Life

by Brent van Staalduinen

  This can’t get that far. I won’t let it.

  I slap the coffee table with my hand and stand. The effect is instantaneous. The living room goes quiet and all eyes find their way to me. Aunt Viv sees what I’m about to do and she moves from the door, shaking her head. But I give her a look of my own, hoping it’s strong enough, and she stops.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “This is all my fault.”

  “Wait,” Mom says. “Let’s —”

  “No, Mom. I have to own my shit.”

  Own your shit. Jesse’s language. (“But tell your mom I said stuff, right?”) Mom’s eyes widen and shimmer. She starts to say something more but I hold up a hand.

  “Visiting Jesse was my idea. I thought he wanted me to go. I had to go, too, I guess. It wasn’t what I expected, but —” Then it’s my eyes that are filling. The disappointment of it. The reality. I wipe my palm across my eyes and look at Mom. “It is what it is, right?”

  It is what it is. More of Jesse’s voice, channelled through me. Time to let go.

  She nods and gives me a small, sad smile. “It is what it is.”

  I take a deep breath and turn toward Sean. “I went to Windsor last night.”

  “No kidding,” he says, rolling his eyes.

  “If Aunt Viv restores the system to show the trip, can you charge me properly?”

  “Is she admitting that she hacked me?”

  Aunt Viv glares at him but says nothing. But I don’t think it matters. I can see some strength return to Sean’s bearing. He’s seeing a way out of this.

  I say, “I’m admitting I left town. Can you charge me?”

  “I don’t charge anyone, remember? I’ll merely report that you broke your sentencing conditions. The consequence will be up to the court, although for you I suspect it’ll be just an extension, rather than escalation. You’ll have to tell the judge where you went.”

  “And why,” Mom says to me.

  “I know. I’ll take whatever comes.”

  “You must’ve had help,” Sean says.

  I look at the floor, not wanting to say anything to get Gal and Mia in trouble, but I nod. It’s pretty obvious I couldn’t have gone on my own. Sean waits for me to offer more, but I won’t. This is on me.

  I don’t know how long we all stay suspended like that, between what’s said and unsaid, but finally Sean sighs and sits back on the couch.

  “Ah, screw it,” he says. “Don’t tell me. Frankly, I don’t need the extra paperwork.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me, Wendell. There are no guarantees here.” A pause. “They must be some amazing friends.”

  “The best.”

  “All right,” Sean says. “This stays with me and I leave them out of it. As long as the other thing is taken care of, yeah?”

  “Aunt Viv? Will you do it?”

  There’s so much resistance in her. She scowls and spends a long time looking at the floor, her eyes darting left and right. Weighing and figuring. Finally, without looking up at anyone, she nods. Sean’s relief takes him over so completely, he looks like he could cry. Seeing that perfect lack of a digital trail. Saved.

  He gets up and mumbles a good night, tells me he’ll see me in the morning, and walks out. I lock the door behind him, peeking through the blinds. I watch for a short while, but there’s only one news truck still there. Dark. No movement. Gathering dew on the windshield. Like they’ve gone to sleep. But I’m sure they haven’t gone away or forgotten.

  When I return to the living room, only Aunt Viv remains, sitting in the easy chair with her laptop. Already immersed, her brow scrunched up in concentration. She doesn’t look up but tells me that Mom has gone back to her workshop, that she’s pretty upset. Proud that her kid is taking responsibility but also worried what his actions and admissions will bring down on him. I go downstairs and stand outside her door.

  “Mom?”

  No answer. No sounds. No light cutting under the door to tell me she’s present and busy and hopefully okay.

  “I’m sorry.”

  Still nothing. I turn and go into my room and lie down on the bed. It’s not that late, but I don’t want to come out again. Something in me needs to lie in the darkness without doing anything. Apart from wondering about the impossibility of doing the right thing.

  ON YOUR TERMS

  Before work on Monday morning, I pause on our side step before heading over to the park. I’m surprised to see that the street is empty of news people. They were there all day yesterday. I guess our story isn’t important enough for constant coverage. Media owners with tight budgets, refusing overtime.

  I step away from the house and head west toward the park. A now-familiar rhythm. Aside from wondering when the media circus will return, it feels like any other day in this messed-up summer. Cooler, though. The sun isn’t as high. Later sunrise. For the first time, I’m wearing a long-sleeve T-shirt under my safety vest. There’s a depth to the coolness. Maybe fall isn’t so far away.

  I didn’t see Mom at breakfast. Only Aunt Viv and Gramma Jan were up, getting ready for a last-minute appointment at the hospital. Something to do with adjusting the cocktail of drugs the doctors have Gramma Jan on. She was as pale as yesterday, and there were new tremors in her hands as she tried to eat her breakfast. She had a hard time with it. Her toast shook on its way to her mouth. Aunt Viv had to peel her hard-boiled egg for her.

  Behind me, there’s the quick beep of a car horn. I turn to see a small silver car pull up beside the house. Must be an Uber for the trip to the hospital. Aunt Viv emerges from the house and leans into the car’s window to say something to the driver. He turns on his yellow hazards. She sees me and waves before heading back inside.

  I walk quickly, trying to get a little heat in my bones. The park is quiet. The sudden coolness keeping the less diehard walkers and runners away.

  Sean meets me at the field house with a stack of paperwork to read. He must’ve been up late to get it ready so quickly. Gal is starting his day, too, but lets Sean and me use his office. There’s almost no smell of weed today, as though Gal has aired the place out for us.

  “I will walk now,” he says, getting up from the tiny desk. “Take your time.”

  “Thank you,” Sean says.

  His words are professional but clipped as short as a brush cut. Like he’s still processing his unwilling role in my production. Like he doesn’t want to say too much, too soon. Like he’s deciding how pissed off to be at anyone who might’ve been involved. After Gal steps out, Sean rushes through the formalities about my admission of guilt and what happens next, and I have to sign a few forms.

  “Your mum has a few things to sign, too,” he says. “I’ll head over to your place next.”

  “She wasn’t up when I left.”

  “Is that unusual?”

  “Very. She’s an early riser.”

  “Well, this isn’t like every other day, I suppose.” Sean’s voice rises lightly at the end of his statement. Almost a question but not quite. I don’t respond. What would I say? I haven’t seen an “every other day” for a long time. All my days seem prone to shift in unexpected directions.

  He gets up and slides the paperwork back into its folder as he walks to the door. He pauses, silhouetted against the brightness of the morning.

  “Vivian came through, by the way. Your trip to Windsor is clearly indicated. The chronological vectors and my lack of immediate response are anomalous enough for an investigation —”

  “Chronological vectors? And what investigation?”

  He shakes his head, almost comic in its suddenness, and gives a small, sad smile. “Right. Sorry. I had your aunt in my mind as I said it. She’d know.”

  “She would.”

  “Your ankle monitor tracks speed, time, and distance, yeah? So it’s clear you drove out of the city, which normally would’ve triggered a breach alert. That I didn’t immediately register the breach or try to locate you is enough to get me in trouble, and enoug
h for a records audit.”

  “Does that happen?”

  “Hasn’t yet,” he says. “But it could. My work phone is tracked, of course, so if anyone notices my little GPS dot sitting at home while you’re zipping to Windsor and back …”

  “Right. Bad news. Got it.”

  Without another word Sean turns away and disappears through the door. His lack of farewell hangs in the cool, damp air like an accusation. I sigh, put on my helmet, and follow. Sean is already at his car, opening his door. Gal is out here, too, working on a service door down the side of the building. Tightening the hinges with a screwdriver. Out of earshot. Far enough to be polite.

  “Do I need to worry about him?” Gal asks as I approach. He doesn’t look up from his task.

  “I don’t think so. My admission seems to be enough.”

  “Good.”

  “Can I use your phone? I’d like to call Mia.”

  “It is early, my friend.”

  “She’ll be up. She’s an early riser.”

  “No, I was thinking of her parents. They might not know about —”

  “And my call will only make them curious. Got it.”

  “Good,” he says again.

  And that’s it. I wait for something more, but he is reimmersed in the task. The hinges needing all his attention. Like I wasn’t there.

  So.

  Spike in hand, I walk out into the field. The dew on the grass is thick and cold and in seconds soaking into my toes. I head into the woods across the way, thinking I can stay on the paths until the sun gets high enough to burn off the moisture.

  Time passes slowly. I find only the occasional piece of trash. Lots of time to think. And to fall into that old habit of waiting for Jesse’s voice. Which doesn’t come. It feels strange doing the job without knowing whether or not his voice could arrive at any moment. Yet what could he say now? I don’t know how to feel about that.

  FAR FROM PERFECT

  Mom finds me before lunch. I’m working the treeline on the far side of the aviary. Eastern exposure. Full sun. The grass here is dry. I’m avoiding the shadows.

  She’s dressed in jeans and a long open sweater, her hair in a simple ponytail. Which is surprising — she prefers to pile her hair on top of her head in loose bunches, cool off her neck and out of her work. She looks tired but at peace. Her eyes still carry the dark shadows underneath but also a calmness I haven’t seen in a while. And she’s going grey. More than occasional streaks of white and silver line her light-brown hair. I don’t think I’ve noticed that before. A green plastic shopping bag hangs from her left hand, bumping against her leg as she walks. She smiles and waves.

  “Lunch?” she says, holding up the bag.

  “Is everything all right?”

  “You’re a hard one to find. Good thing I ran into the park manager.”

  “Gal. He’s my supervisor.”

  “Right. Funny I’ve never met him before. What did you call him?”

  I say the name again.

  “Oh, okay. He introduced himself to me by his last name. Amar, I think it was.”

  “I’ve only known him as Gal. Sean called him Gary on the first day.”

  Her head tilts and she purses her lips. Nods. “Right. Gal. So that’s who Viv was talking about. The one who drove you to see Jesse. Now that fits in a little better.”

  “Mia came, too.”

  “I know.”

  “So are you all right? What’s up?”

  “Your head looks good. The stitches, I mean. There’s barely a scar.”

  “Mom …”

  “Let’s find a spot to sit down, okay?”

  I point at a couple of benches on the south side of the aviary and ask if those will do. The sun is shining on the outside cages. Birds are visible in only one of them. A handful of tiny green and yellow parakeets, squawking loud enough you’d think there were dozens. Mom smiles at the sight and the noise and says that it’s perfect. We walk over together. I watch her closely. Part of me is happy that she looks so at ease, but the rest of me doesn’t fully trust it. You can be afraid of a sudden peace that appears in a loved one too soon.

  We sit on opposite ends of the bench, leaving a space between us for the meal. Mom opens the bag and lays out the food. Bread. Sandwich meat. Cheese. Mustard. Apples. Yogurt cups. A couple of those miniature bags of chips you give out at Halloween. She wordlessly assembles a sandwich and hands it over to me. Bologna and cheddar and mustard. A new combination to me. I take a bite and chew, Mom watching me as I eat. Expectant.

  “It’s good,” I say with my mouth still full. “Really good.”

  She looks pleased. “That was my favourite sandwich when I was a kid. I’m glad you like it.”

  I always thought PBJ was her favourite. The things you can’t know, I suppose. I finish chewing and swallow. “What’s going on?”

  “I had a craving. Bologna sandwiches and chips and a picnic. Lucky for us the store had everything.” She reaches into the bag and pulls out the receipt, crumples it up, and worries the small wad of paper between her fingers.

  “No, I mean —”

  “I know what you mean, Dills. In a minute. First things first.”

  She flicks the wadded-up receipt back into the bag and pulls the far side of her sweater across her body. From a small pocket sewn to the front she withdraws a brass-coloured object engraved with an unfamiliar style of writing. And something else I haven’t seen in her hands since before the shooting. A small joint the size of a .22-calibre short round, held tight in a binder clip. A pinner. She and Jesse used that word whenever they smoked up together. Their ritual. They’d grin at each other, and whoever had the joint would hold it up before sparking up and would say “Pinner time, lover!” like it was a horny, sacred toast.

  “Really? Now?”

  “Yes, really,” she says. “Yes, now.”

  I watch Mom place the joint between her lips and open the brass lighter and flick the wheel. She touches the flame to the tip of the joint and breathes in so deeply she might hold the entire summer in her lungs. She exhales and smiles, closing her eyes. A single tear escapes, but she lets it course down her cheek. A good tear. She doesn’t stop smiling as it dashes under her chin and soaks into her collar. She inhales again. Exhales. I wait.

  “This must look strange,” she says.

  “Wow, yes.”

  “Mr. Amar — Gal — hooked me up.”

  “Wait, what? He did?”

  “I could smell it on him. So after I introduced myself, I just asked.”

  “And he gave it to you?”

  She inhales again, holds it, then blows the yellowish smoke at the sky. “Yep. Rolled it right there in front of me. Clipped it. Gave me his old army Zippo, said I could return it later.”

  I glance at the lighter again. The engraved script is Hebrew, of course. There is also a crest, like you’d see on a military shoulder flash. And nicks and scratches and dents. The tarnish of the brass a long history.

  “This is so weird,” I say.

  “I’m drowning in weird, Dills. This feels normal.”

  What do I say to that? It’s so accurate. Maybe I understand far too much.

  The pinner is already almost burned down. She tokes a final time, this one even longer and deeper. Her eyes narrow but shining. As she exhales she talks about how she and her friends used to run all over the park. The secret places they found. I think about Mia’s spot in the hedge and wonder if Mom might’ve used the same space. She talks about how they used to make fun of the lawn-bowling-club members, their white clothes and hats and formal ways. About how old they seemed to her and her friends.

  And she laughs about the poison ivy, how mad Gramma Jan used to get whenever a new rash appeared. I look at my own wrist, realizing that the bandage fell off at some point, but don’t say anything. I let her talk. She hasn’t said this much since the shooting. There’s a fragile need in her I’m afraid to frighten away. I can pinpoint the hour when it began, of course, but i
t feels undefinable, too, like it’s possible that entire histories could get forgotten.

  “You saw him,” she says. “You saw Jesse.”

  I nod.

  “I never went to the hospital after the shooting. Sometimes I wanted to. Mostly I didn’t. The media was camped out, of course. But I was so angry.”

  “Everyone was. Is.”

  “But not you.”

  “I am now. He’s given up. He’s not even willing to try to come home, to face me, to make one thing right.”

  “You shouldn’t carry this.”

  “I don’t know how I can’t.”

  “Me being angry at him has nothing to do with why. I’m as mad at myself for not seeing …” She sighs and looks at the distant trees for a few long seconds. “Of course, there were all the little things. Little signs. Like breadcrumbs to what happened. But —”

  “He always seemed okay to me. Normal.”

  “Maybe he was to you. For you.”

  “Everyone hates him.”

  She snorts. “These days people don’t know what to hate. Or how.”

  “They all talk about him like —”

  “No. Something inside him cracked. Something beyond his strength. That’s it. People need to think there was more, but he was just broken. That’s it.”

  “I didn’t know you felt that way. I thought —”

  “I’m sorry, Dills.”

  I hold out my hand and she places the lighter into it. I flick it open. Closed. Open. Closed. The sound of it echoes sharp around us. “I’m sorry, too, Mom. For all of this.”

  “‘Sorry is as sorry does,’ as Gramma Jan likes to say.”

  One of the most confusing things I’ve ever heard. Yet it makes a kind of sense, too. Sorry needs to get said, but it can’t really fix anything, can’t bring anyone back. Mom reaches out and fingers the edge of my safety vest above my shoulder, worrying a spot where the nylon is beginning to fray. A mom thing. Looking for something to repair.

  “Tell me about the trip,” she says. “Tell me everything.”

  So I do. Every detail. When I get to the part where I first saw him, I have trouble getting it out. My mind and soul pushing those details so far down I can barely grab them. Scars. The pieces of a person lost to gunfire. How a damaged person can be there and not there. The details hurt when they claw themselves out, and I fight myself as I’m sharing them. Even with my mom, who needs to know. We both lose it a couple of times. But you know what? Some amazing things get said. But those are just for me and her. I hope that’s all right.